


Because He Needs Us

by Lucky7



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fusco's disgust, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:51:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He fully understands the guy’s motivation in tearing up large swaths of the city while going after Simmons. But he also understands that when you seek revenge, you may end up digging two graves. One for yourself. And he’d rather not see that happen.”  (Fill-in scenes for 3.11; POV Fusco)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“I sent you a photo, Detective. I need some help with alias data on this person.”_

“OK. I’ll see what I can dig up. And have you… ” _Click...._

“Guess not…” he says to himself, putting down the phone. Obviously the Professor is still in no mood to talk about it - or anything, other than issues related to work. Rather like when he first met the man, a nondescript geek who happened to have a trigger finger on a two-legged weapon of destruction. And the little man not only hadn’t trust him, but had considered him just another dirty cop.

Which of course he was…

He sighs heavily. Lately it seems his life has been going one step forward, two steps back. Not that he’s complaining about his elevated status here since goose-stepping that slime Simmons through the precinct. Being the big dog in the division now is pretty nice, but… He tries not to look across his desk. He never does, letting his eyes slide either right or left if it’s necessary to track someone in the bull pen.

Mostly though, he tries to not be at his desk at all.

Sure, Carter had already vacated that station for weeks, out pounding the beat after she’d been demoted. But no one had been reassigned to that space, and as long as it remained unused he could pretend that she’d get it back soon. At the time it was of course more than pretense, he’d been sure of it! Now he just wishes she’d trusted him more; let him in on her plans…let him help. Maybe some things would have turned out differently. Perhaps a lot of things would be different. The thought leaves him hanging between anger and sorrow.

He spends the next half hour running down information for Finch. Standard stuff: apartment leases, past addresses, car registrations, prior arrests. Easy peasy when you have the right software and contacts at your fingertips. As he finds the documents he texts them to the reclusive geek, not really expecting to get a reply since he’s seldom gotten one before.

The Dynamic Duo is not big on dishing out “thank you’s”.

Getting back to his own cases he starts on the stack of reports, checking his phone every so often for a message. Hoping for a message. Jeez! He’s got to stop doing this! Like some fan girl mooning over a film star, hoping to get a text or any kind of indication that the big guy is still out there. Still alive.

And talking to the Professor is proving useless. The geek either doesn’t know anything about where Wonder Boy disappeared to or isn’t sharing. In either case, he’s pulled out every trick he’s learned over his many years at NYPD trying to track down Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deranged, with no luck. The ex-op is pulling his invisible man routine. Not a trace to be found.

He nervously taps his favorite pen on the desk, remembering scenes from several months ago. His nemesis had been in a bad way for quite a while, hanging on by a thread. And who would have thought that the Goth bitch in black would be the one to save the Suit? Personally, she scared the hell out of him, but in this case he’s had to hand it to her…she knows her doctor stuff!

Hmm. Perhaps she knows something more. In the beginning he’d purposely stayed as far as possible outside her circle of peril, treating her much like one would a rabid dog: lots of space and no eye contact. But after getting captured by Simmons, and with her saving his boy’s life…? He doesn’t care if the Goth queen shoots every perp who crosses her path. As far as he’s concerned he owes the woman - big time!

And since she and Mr. Deadly are pretty much cut from the same cloth, both being bona fide members of Killers Anonymous, is there a chance she might even now be in contact with the psychopathic vigilante? He reaches for his cell, then stops. Yeah. He doesn’t have a number for Ms. Trigger Happy! And there’s not much use in asking the Professor.

Damn! He tosses the phone back on the desk, sending forms and letters scattering and earning a quizzical glance from the uni passing his desk. He scowls at the officer, daring a comment, then returns to the blizzard of papers on his work space. Whoever said computers were going to cut down on paper copy obviously hadn’t been to this precinct! Now he gets to type stuff online _and_ fill in hard copy forms.

Someone with some influence should really lean on the powers that be…

On the tail of that thought, he shovels his phone out from under the snow bank of papers and scrolls swiftly through his contact list. Ha! There it is! Ms. Z. Morgan, the hot chick he’d met only in passing on one of their cases, but who had impressed him - though mostly because of her gams. He’d taken time to do a little research on the woman, and now, if this is still a working number…

_“Detective Fusco. How did you get this number?”_

“Uh…hi. Uh, got it from a mutual friend,” he lies. “The tall one?” He stumbles over the words, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t really expected her to pick up. And certainly not on the first ring. Yeah. Should probably have thought this one through a bit more.

 _“Now I doubt that. But since you did call me, what can I do for you?”_ She has such a sultry voice. Fusco has this sudden vision of shapely legs and…

“I’m looking for John Reese. You don’t happen to know where he is, do you?”

There’s silence at the other end, and for a few seconds he wonders if perhaps she’s decided to not take his call after all.  
But then, _“Seems there are quite a few folks insistent on finding him. Harold being the most frantic. But no, I wish I did.”_

“Oh. Well, thanks anyway.” He tries not to let the disappointment bleed too deeply into his tone. After all, it was a long shot. “If he does contact you, will you let me know? You have my number on the ID.”

_“That will be John’s decision, but if he doesn’t mind, I’ll give you a call.”_

“Thanks. Uh…goodbye.” A lame finish but he really doesn’t know what else to say, and puts the phone back on the desk. Maybe he could call Finch again… No!  
But sitting here is driving him bonkers!

There’s got to be something else he can do, someone else he can shake down. He dials another number, tapping his pen on the desk as he hears it ringing. One ringy-ding, two ringy-ding, three, four, five… No answer. Given who he’s calling there’s no percentage in leaving a voice mail. After staring at the phone a few seconds, he lurches out of his chair and surges to his feet as he drops the cell into his pocket along with the keys to his cruiser.

His movements go on auto pilot as he clips on the badge, pockets the cuffs, and retrieves his gun from the desk drawer. Thinks briefly of getting his vest, but decides against it. Too uncomfortable. Besides, where he’s going is relatively safe; it’s not a war zone. Yet.

 

\------------------------

“Leon Tao? Detective Fusco.”

Ringing the bell repeatedly had gotten no reaction, so he’s resorted to the old fashioned Let-Me-In pounding method. The door finally opens - or at least as far as a security chain will allow – revealing a half-moon portion of Leon’s face as it fills the narrow space at a tad below Fusco’s eye level. He’d forgotten how short the little con man is.

“Uh...Detective. Uh, hi. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Well, for starters, you can unhook that chain and let me in. I need to talk to you.”

“Uh. Yeah. Well, uh, you see, now’s not a good time.” And the little man turns his head to look back into the darken room. A noticeably suspicious move hard for a layman to miss, much less an NYPD detective.

“Really. And why is that, Mr. Tao? You hiding something?” Fusco straightens up and puts on his most professional intimidating expression. He thinks about ratcheting up the menace factor even more by reaching for his weapon, but decides that the little guy might possibly faint with fright. The Leon he remembers isn’t exactly warrior material.

“No. No! Of course not. It’s just that, uh …” Leon trails off, visibly nervous. “Ok. We can talk. Out here.”

“Fine with me”, Fusco responds. Like he cares at this point if the guy is smoking dope or cranking out funny money! Though even Leon should be smarter than to start an illegal operation in his sleazy apartment…or maybe not. In any case he’s got only one goal on his mind right now, and the con man may be able to help him reach it.

Leon closes the door briefly, unhooks the chain and then creating a space barely wide enough to allow him to slither through, moves into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

“Jesus, Leon!” Fusco exclaims. “What in the hell are you doing in there?”

“Nothing…nothing! Well, nothing illegal,” responds the little man, drawing up to his full five foot seven.

“Yeah, well, I can only imagine, what with you standing out here in your boxers. And the picture I’m getting is burning my eyeballs from the inside out!”

Leon looks up and down the hallway, attempting to merge with the grimy wall next to his apartment door. Fusco decides to give the con artist some slack. After all, the last thing he wants is for Leon to get tongue tied with embarrassment…though he doubts the guy even knows the definition of the word.

“Look, listen up. I don’t care what or who you have in there. Just answer me this: do you know where I can find Reese?”

Leon looks startled, enough so that he moves away from the wall. “Nooo…” He drags out the word. “Is he lost?”

“Yeah, you might say that.”

Actually that was probably a good word for it. He’d visited Reese several times during the ex-op’s recovery and each time was stonewalled. The man didn’t want to talk. Not to him, not to Finch, not to the Goth bitch who probably saved his ass. The big guy had just lain there, bouncing around in his own mind, shutting himself in and everyone else out. Not even the pooch could get to him.

“If he contacts you, give me a call”, and he shoves a card into Leon’s hand. The con man looks at it and then at Fusco. “I hope you find him Detective. I need him around here when I get in trouble.”

At first Fusco thinks the con is trying for an insult, perhaps a not-so-veiled shot directed at NYPD response time - which he knows sucks - but then looks at Leon’s face. The little man is dead serious; Leon really does think of Reese as his personal protector.

“I’ll find him,” he responds, with more conviction than he feels. “I’ll find him.”

He turns away from the door and as Leon squeezes himself back through the entrance, the sound of several giggles drift into the hallway. Fusco rolls his eyes. He _really_ doesn’t what to know what’s going on in there…

 

\------------------------

“Look, Professor, I know you like to keep things close to the vest, but we’ve got to find your boy.”

_“Why?”_

The portly cop had struggled with himself, finally giving in and calling Glasses again. But now he’s momentarily stumped. That was not the response he’d expected, and frankly a question he hadn’t really thought much about. Why _was_ he worried about Finch’s gunslinger…and looking for him all these many weeks? He’d called Finch again after he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. And why was that?

His mind churns, rooting for answers like a hog for truffles, only none seem to be anywhere near the surface for easy retrieval. There’s got to be some logic attached to the answer, something like, “I need help to close a case”, or “I need him to sieve some scum from the gene pool”. All a piece of the answer, but none enough to make a whole.

The full answer has ties to his partner’s death and the final ending to HR, though looking back he knows the turning point in his life came long before those particular events, when Wonder Boy showed up in the back of his cruiser. He needs to find the man, one he still refers to in his head as the Bane of his Existence, because the pain-in-the-ass gave him back his self-respect.

Shaw may have saved the son, but Reese saved the father. Not gently, not in one stroke, and not with any finesse, but through bullying, coercion, intimidation. Sometimes painful, always stressful, but it got the job done: he’d quit drinking, quit gofering for HR, and started acting like a cop again. Got back the pride he’d felt when he’d first joined the force. And that’s why he now feels compelled to rescue his rescuer.

He fully understands the guy’s motivation in tearing up large swaths of the city while going after Simmons. But he also understands that when you go out to seek revenge, you may end up digging two graves. One for yourself. And he’d rather not see that happen.

“Because he needs us. And we need him.”

There is silence at the other end. Fusco wonders if the geek has hung up on him, that having happened on more than one occasion. But finally he hears a sigh, and knows the older man is still with him.

 _“There’s a military facility not far from Denver. Start there.”_  
Finch gives him further directions which he hastily scribbles on the desk pad. Not very precise, but enough. He’s not a detective for nothing…he’ll find Tall, Dark and Deadly given this starting point.

 

\------------------------

The flight to Denver was uneventful…as it should be. Something that every passenger, whether consciously or not, prays for. The Professor had offered to pay for a first class ticket, but the flight was packed and he’d had to fly cattle class in the only seat still available. But on the plus side he didn’t have some screaming kid or a chatty grandma sitting next to him. The guys on either side, clearly business types, never said a word, just tapped away on their laptops.

The “snacks” of course were laughable and he’d quickly stuffed them into the seat pocket in front of him. At least he did have some choice in sodas. And the movie was one he hadn’t seen before. So overall, a good trip.

Now he’s cruising north of Denver, where Finch had indicated as the best area in which to run Mr. Happy to ground. So far he’s hit every motel, restaurant, and bar along the major thoroughfare near the army post, but with no success. Not that he expects anything more, since Reese will likely have hitched a ride out of the city. But the cop in him still has to be certain.

He turns into a small bar just off the highway, already deciding this as his last stop before finding himself a room somewhere for the night. Ominous clouds have been gathering all afternoon, promising a real toad floater soon and frankly, he doesn’t relish driving around a strange area in a pouring rain, especially not in a rental.

Not after catching the tail end of the TV news at that last StopNShop - though it was hard to stay focused on a storm prediction and not on the voluptuous weather girl. With the long red hair. And low cut blouse. She looked great…but what he remembered of the forecast? It truly sucked.

Leaving the nondescript rental in the pot-holed parking lot next to several shiny hogs, he pushes into the Colorado version of the ‘Last Chance Saloon’. The place is the typically dark and gloomy bar interpretation of “cosy”, with traditional neon signs outlining names of well know beers lending an eerie glow to the atmosphere. The place is mostly deserted with only a couple of locals taking advantage of the pool table.

The only thing missing is a juke-box playing some She-Done-Me-Wrong song…though there did seem to be music coming from somewhere, pretty much drowned out by the clink of billiard balls, the sound bouncing off walls covered with memorabilia.

Moving past the pool table he finds a seat at the bar and glances around the place while waiting for the bartender to notice him. Finally the old man looks up from an inventory list and moves toward his customer.

“What’ll it be?”

“Soda…and some information,” says Fusco, slipping into his most harmless demeanor. The best he can hope for - Wonder Boy having already cornered the market on “charm”.

The barkeep gives him a reserved smile, one obviously designed to make customers feel welcome to spend their money, but also one that promises nothing for free. “Don’t serve soft drinks here. Beer, mixed drinks, or straight liquor...”

“Fine. Then I’ll take a bourbon and soda. Soda on the side.”

The grizzled employee gives him a disgusted look and moves further down the aisle to fill the order while Fusco studies the area behind the bar, his attention drawn to the numerous items pinned to the wall. Most are photos of service men - he assumes from the nearby military base - though there are a couple of old clippings. One dated June 1942. Another, a more recent one sponsored by the VFW, declares ‘Welcome Home Troops!’

The clippings are yellowed, the edges curling, testimony to having been there for some time. He studies them all, but what holds his interest is a series of photos framed in a manner his ex-wife would call a collage, hung in the area next to the grimy window. They’re of one person, with the photo that really catches his eye being of an unsmiling soldier, front and center.

Faded as are they all, it still has enough clarity to define the features of the man caught on camera staring straight into the lens. A familiar face. Not an exact copy, but enough of the same bone structure that he can see a strong resemblance. Those prominent cheek bones, that straight nose, tight lips… John Reese.

“Bourbon, soda on the side.” The bartender places the two glasses in front of him with a little more force than necessary, underscoring his opinion of the cop’s order.

“Thanks.” And Fusco pulls out several bills. “Keep the change.”

The barman quickly calculates the amount of his tip, then decides the portly cop is not such a bad sort after all. His face relaxes and almost smiles again.

Fusco takes a sip, then using the glass as a pointer, indicates the larger photo on the wall.  
“Who’s that guy?”

The bar owner glances briefly at the frame indicated then turns back to Fusco. “Don’t know. Bought this place about a year ago. All this stuff was here already.” He shrugs lightly. “Didn’t really see any need to change it what with all those Army folks who like to come in here. Makes them feel welcome.”

“That guy, the one in the large photo…he looks familiar. Seen him come in here recently?”

This time the barkeep makes a full turn and studies the photo.  
“Huh. Now that you mention it…”

 

\------------------------

Fusco sits at the table, his glass on the pitted top positioned between a lop-sided heart carved in the old wood and the name ‘Andy’ written in magic marker peeking out from under yesterday’s paper. He’d left the bourbon on the bar where he has no doubt it will either end up back inside the bottle…or the bartender. Whatever. He’ll stick to his expensive soda.

He knows he’s anxious. Knows the feeling well and accepts it, that toxic blend of anger and sorrow which started with the knowledge that Simmons had his kid. It had been diluted with the sound of Shaw’s voice over the phone, and more so with the satisfaction in the throttling his tormentor.

But with the death of his partner and the disappearance of Wonder Boy, it came back full strength. And hasn’t let up; he’s been carrying it around for months now, the corrosive combo eating a hole in his stomach.

Consciously keeping his knee from bouncing with anticipation, he pulls his hat a bit lower down on his brow. Takes a large swallow of soda and rearranges his feet under the table. And now his knee is bouncing…again. He needs a better cover than this! The paper. Yeah. That’ll work. He opens the newspaper to the sports section; might as well catch up on the scores while he waits.

He’s going to be lighting a fuse soon enough, at the end of which is the most lethal human he’s ever had the bad luck to meet.

By now his adrenalin is spiking and with it comes a corresponding enhancement of the senses. Like Superman, he thinks. He can feel and hear and smell things that before he couldn’t. Like the texture of the humidity infused paper beneath his fingers, and the slickness of the liquor stained floor beneath his feet. The sound of that mournful ballad playing on some radio in the place, overlaid with the clink of billiard balls and muted chit-chat around the pool table. The smell of stale cigarettes and beer and wet wood.

And out of his periphery Fusco senses more than sees a tall man exit the restrooms and head toward the bar. He stops bouncing his knee, grips the paper tightly. Without turning his head he knows exactly when that individual stops, does an about face and moves toward his table.

He stills as Reese comes to stand next to him. His hat is unceremoniously lifted from his head, and in a flat whispery voice devoid of all emotion, one that still has the power to invade his nightmares, he hears:

“Hello, Lionel. Finch send you?”

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

Lionel lets himself into the apartment, drops his keys in the tray, and heads straight for the fridge. It’s a real shame he’s stopped drinking ‘cause he could really use a little anesthesizing right now. But…diet Coke or Dr. Pepper. That’s it.

He blindly grabs whichever can is closest to the front and pops the top with a loud _squishhh._ He’s at least glad to be home again. Yeah. Home. Such as it is. Eight damn steps from the door to the fridge. Used to be he’d have time to take off his coat, holster, loosen his belt, and kick off his shoes all while walking to the kitchen. But that was in a former house, with a former wife. In a former life.

He plops down on the worn couch and turns on the boob tube. No sound though. He’s barely got enough energy to watch anything, much less try to make sense of whatever is on the audio track. And given the garbage that’s on TV these days, he won’t miss anything. Besides, he knows the minute he relaxes, his brain will be setting up for a slide show of all that’s gone down the last few days, starting with his conversation with Finch and the geek giving him directions on how to find Wonder Boy.

And he had found him. Mr. Tall, Dark…and Brooding. In Colorado. In his old man’s watering hole. 

He thinks again of the photo on that wall, the one of a soldier so eerily similar to Reese, and wonders what kind of relationship the ex-op might have had with his Dad. Was there something in his family life that had led Mr. Happy to be able to just kill people on command? 

Fusco shudders. Yeah, he’s killed too…every NYPD cop is faced with that decision at some point in his career. But it’s a far cry from being a professional assassin like Reese had become. Though he doesn’t think the big guy actually enjoys killing bad guys. To the ex-op it's probably akin to taking out the garbage. And isn’t that scary…!

Fusco takes another swallow of soda, watching with disinterest as the TV displays yet another weather front moving into the city. More rain. And as the little animated drops flow across the screen behind an overly cheerful weatherman, his mind takes the opportunity to use the visual as an excuse to trip back to the bar and that futile fight in the rain storm.

\----------------------

_“It’s pointless. Irrelevant.”_

He’d been so incensed with Reese’s brooding attitude, that apparent indifference to all that his partner Carter had held dear and had given her life for…he’d done something really stupid: he’d challenged that lethal human being to a fight! 

Sure, the guy’s comments had been pissing him off! But jeez. What an idiotic move that was! 

He could have gotten himself killed, and because anger has a way of boiling away all good sense he’d gone as far as pushing the inebriated ex-op out the back door and off the steps. And then attacked him like a pit bull drunk on slaughterhouse blood!

Of course the cold rain and getting thumped to the ground right away quickly cooled his temper. He’d found himself literally fighting for his life. Thank God that cop had shown up when he did; he could have kissed the man, he was so grateful!

Worrying about being put in the same cell with his adversary proved unwarranted as Reese had gone out like light once prone on one of the hard benches, leaving only the walls and steel bars for company. And while Reese slept off the bender, the cop had time to dry out. And think. 

He’d tried to talk Mr. Happy into coming back, pulling on every emotional thread he could think of, including a reference to himself. He’d even come close, though not quite, to outright thanking Reese for saving his sorry ass! 

_“You saved lots of people, including me! You’re saying that’s pointless?”_

Had tried to talk Mr. Happy into coming back to take his place on their team, knowing it probably wasn’t going to work. The guy had taken Carter’s death pretty hard – they all had! But Wonder Boy was taking her demise as testimony to the futility of trying to save anyone. 

The ex-op had given up and had been busy decorating his world for the mother of all pity-parties. What a waste!

Once in the cell he’d studied the man crowding the wall on the too narrow bench. Only this person was a far cry from the suave looking Man in the Suit. Gone were the clean white shirt, the expensive slacks and high priced shoes, replaced by a well worn work shirt, scruffy jeans and an equally scruffy jacket. Frankly, he’d looked like many of the faceless drunks the NYPD seined out of the streets on a regular basis.

With all the enthusiasm of a man about to wake a sleeping bear, he’d shuffled closer to the bench. And for the first time dared to address the professional killer with a nick-name he always before used only in his head when around the former soldier. 

_“Hey, Wonder Boy! Rise and shine!”_

Reese had startled fully awake, causing the chubby cop to instinctively move back a few steps. There’s a good reason for that well known axiom: “Don’t poke the bear…” It can lead to getting one’s limbs torn off! 

_“Truce, right?”_ he’d asked nervously, rocking on his toes, preparing himself in case his adversary attempted to take up the fight where they’d left off.

_“I’m not going to fight you, Lionel.”_

Yeah, but that’s what the guy had said before. Before he’d almost punched the cop into next week. But this John Reese sounded merely grumpy, and not surprising, considering the amount of alcohol he’d likely consumed even before the cop found him. While he was drowning in a well of self-centered, self-sustained depression…

 _“Some of the best vacations I’ve ever had were behind bars.”_ And good grief! Wasn’t that an unwelcome peek at the ex-op’s past! 

He’d been feeling more and more Mr. Deadly’s equal, losing some of that awe that used to keep him on fear’s edge in the presence of the former assassin. The big guy was proving to be made of flesh and blood, just like the rest of them. Not the unbeatable super hero he’d come to think of as he’d watched the lethal ex-agent time and again save the day for their team. 

In fact, he’d compared himself to the guy sitting on the bench, a disheveled, hung-over ex-soldier. Even had the temerity to consider the man as perhaps being less than himself. Maybe not physically, maybe not in terms of lethality, but in terms of strength of will. 

He’d even tried to get through by invoking Carter’s name, to get Wonder Boy to understand he was smirching her memory with all this self-pity, but it hadn’t worked. So wrapped up in his own dark world as he was, Reese refused to see any light at the end of the tunnel. And if he did, in that current state of mind the guy would probably assume it was just another train!

Well, Fusco thought, perhaps he should’ve gloried in the fact that his “hero” was no better than himself. But he hadn’t; this…this…thing, this feeling was something that just didn’t sit well! 

He’d always considered himself a realist, not much into all that shrink stuff so popular with the young urbanites these days - but he could equate the feeling to the same mood when he’d found out about Bryan Berard. He’d really admired the Buins defenseman, even though the jock played only one year on the team…and then became the first NHL player to ever test positive for steroids! 

Another hero exposed as having clay feet.

_“Let’s just figure out how to get out of here and go home…”_ he’d finally said, figuring it time to leave. He was tired and had made zero progress trying to rescue the man.

But the response to that comment had been biting, demeaning. And insulting. The worst being the last...  
_“I know the whole good guy thing is new to you…I know you’ll go back to being a corrupt piece of garbage…”_

What an asshole!

\----------------

The cell phone rings and he glances at the number. Thinks about answering it, and decides it’s not worth the effort. It’s the precinct and he knows who it is and right now he’s not interested in discussing any plans for the Chief’s birthday party. He tosses the phone on the Walmart Special coffee table and watches it go to voice mail. No big deal.

Anyway, he’s having his own celebration, right here. It’s called “get-it-out-of-your-system” party and involves erasing certain memories so he can replace them with other, more pleasant ones! It’s not the first time he’s done this. All that crap he used to do for HR? That all had to be erased before he could move on - before he could find some self-respect again. 

Of course he’d had some help from some folks with that. One was his partner…and the other…

\-------------------

He’d held on to his temper with tenuous control, only the knowledge that the ex-op, now sober, could easily kill him with little effort - and likely with no remorse - kept him from attacking the man all over again! With the cell door open for easy escape, he’d allowed his frustration a voice, reminding the lump of despair sitting on the bench in front of him, as well as himself, that Carter would never have given up.

Reese didn’t care about anyone anymore, and Fusco had felt an urgent need to get back to NY if for no other reason than to find out why he hadn’t heard from Finch. He’d called Finch’s cell several times with no answer, confirming that whatever was going down, it wasn’t good. And that was on his plate now as Reese obviously considered any interference, for any reason, as futile…pointless. 

He’d turned and given it one last shot, not so much that he thought it would change anything, but as an outlet for his anger. A shot at an impenetrable shield, but at least satisfying for having fired it.

 _“I haven’t heard from Glasses since last night. That’s not like him. He probably needs our help.”_  
He’d bit out the words, disappointment and resentment clawing his insides.  
_“But there’s no point, right? We’d just be delaying the inevitable!”_

Then he’d turned his back on his ex-hero and stomped out of the station. Once out of the building, he’d hailed a taxi to take him back to his rental at the bar. He was outta there! Screw Reese and his moping!

\--------------------

Fusco wakes up with a start, his neck reminding him vigorously that it didn’t appreciate being held at that awkward angle for so long. The TV screen still flickered, this time with a rerun of some sitcom, playing up all its silly innocuous problems for an audience likely already comatose with dinner and/or drinks. The room is dark but for the glow from the TV, but he doesn’t bother with turning on the switch. The somber lighting fits his mood.

Rubbing his neck, he stumbles his way to the fridge. Not much food in there. Most times he ate out, or ordered in. So he grabs another soda, a left over piece of pizza and makes his way back to the couch, this time arranging himself in a prone position should he fall asleep again. 

Glancing briefly at his phone as he chews down on cold cheese, he suddenly realizes checking his cell is more out of habit than actually expecting anything. Well, that’s a habit he needs to break! Because frankly, there’s a certain cell number he’d just as soon not see come up anymore. 

On that thought his mind shuffles back in time…

\--------------------

He’d just slid into the back of the taxi when his shoulder was shoved. Hard.

_“Move over!”_

_“Get your own taxi! This one is going back to the bar, where I’m going to get my rental and get back to civilization!”_ he’d fumed.

But he’d slid over anyway, the ex-op immediately taking up a large space next to the door. Reese had looked at him, the lines around the ex-op’s mouth more grim than even had been in the jail cell. Those eyes were burnt holes in a blanket, not a glint of emotion to be found. As always, the ex-agent was a self-contained vessel, only now brimming with determination. And reluctance. 

Fusco hadn’t even attempted to fool himself that these actions were the result of anything he’d said to the guy earlier. Whatever the ex-agent's agenda, the cop was never a part of it. Not an important part anyway.

_“We’re going to the airport. There’s a private jet waiting on us; we’ll be airborne the minute we board.”_

Wonder Boy relayed instructions to the cabbie and had then leaned back, his head turned to the window, an obvious signal for “don’t talk to me.” Fusco had given his fallen hero an incredulous look. Well, screw that. 

_“Why?”_ he’d asked, not caring that his tone was a reflection of his pissy mood.

 _“I’ve got a debt to pay.”_ The answer was directed to the window, Wonder Boy not even bothering to face the cop.

And that was all. Not another word was said as they boarded the flight to the city. Reese promptly fell asleep in one of the luxurious recliners while Fusco had stared out the window at the miniature landscape below. 

The plane was a state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line model, and no doubt paid for from Finch’s bottomless money well. Or maybe not, considering that the ex-op probably had made a damn good living working for Glasses. In any case, whoever had picked up the bill, it was a new experience, one that he’d savor since it was likely to be a one-off event. 

The trip was fast, miraculously so, with no traffic to slow them down as they followed the Professor’s cell signal and headed to the bank it indicated they would find him. Stopping just long enough for Reese to relieve a couple of SWAT members of their gear – done so proficiently that Fusco’d had to slap down that old familiar hero worship again – and they were on their way inside the building. 

But other than terse instructions, “Here, take this” and “Put this on”, the cop could have been Bear for all the communication Reese had offered. And he’d been way too pissed off at the guy to initiate a conversation.

Their timing was perfect, scarily so as it was apparent a few minutes later and Glasses, the Goth Queen, and the civilian they were trying to protect would have been creating some gruesome blood paintings on the floor. He’d felt like Rambo, coming down the steps with Wonder Boy, firing off round after round as they took out their targets. Truly awesome!

The only positive thing to come out of this whole mess... 

\--------------------

He shifts on the couch now, reaching for the remote on the coffee table. Sports reviews are coming on next and he needs to check up on the scores. There’s some serious money riding on that last game…

But he stops short of turning on the volume as the slideshow in his head winds down to the final few images. Besides, all those annoying commercials will take over for at least the next five minutes.

Leaning back he braces himself for the last of his personalized show.

\--------------------

There had been little time for socializing after that eruption of violence. The Professor had immediately escorted their charge away from the area, Shaw trailing close on their heels. Let the NYPD to clean up the rest of the mess! At least that was his parting thought as he’d quickly followed Reese out of the building to an alleyway where the ex-op had divested himself of the SWAT outfit and handed Fusco the rest of the weapons. 

_“Here. Take care of this.”_ And Reese had turned on his heel, walking away.

 _“Wait a minute! Where are you going?”_

_“Really none of your business Lionel, but if you must know, I’m going to say goodbye to Finch.”_ The guy never even slowed his stride.

So that was it. Wonder Boy had simply paid back his debt to Finch for having given him a job...a job he’d now turned his back on. Abandoned, for his pity party. 

Yep, clay feet.

But all right then. He and Shaw would just have to pick up the slack. It wouldn’t be easy, but at least they would carry on the work that Finch had started: take out the human trash and save the innocents! 

And Wonder Boy could go to hell for all he cared…

\--------------------

Fusco turns on the sound. The sports announcer starts his spiel, describing the more impressive moments of play while the bottom of the screen scrolls the scores. The cop watches the highlight reels with little interest, even though his team is winning and he knows he just scored big time in the precinct sports pool. He should be elated, imagining himself crowing about his win in front of the precinct losers…

But the image that comes to mind is very different. It’s of a former hero, John Reese, calling him a dirty cop…to the background sound of a crumbling pedestal.


End file.
